atBfc-SESKK 


.»■>■ $ 

'•$%&*. 



&frm& 




*Wiy '4m$jL %* v%, 


- k .^.'ft^ , ^V-^JfV. /- v 


»t 


*Cv^U.. 

;. $r t .' &W k ftil¥#4 '■* • 






PS 3525 
.Y 4 ? 38 
1924 
Copy 1 


' "' >l 
'r ’, -A 


ft®* 


■ j y ; 




%£*&, ,V|f i V& Vi ^ViSi &fv ■. sV* 


Vv .A''*'' > 1 "^ '*•* ^ 


v 3 w%^\*V^:<V-ilxW>* ; ^ : ‘>'‘^ 

v *JTCw.,' ,y; 


itfj' ■£*> £‘' > wt yjkx V 

| 


At 

The Gateway 
of Song 


SCHUYLER R. 
MYERS 










;C. ; L"i.;»AV,'.'T T. ;5 k /#<&-• >*& 

• :> jay y. V; -. ?;<?■ ■ -jf/ • ^g$yv:I 1 ? (• .* 

.«,.'vO--v/V'VIa.iiiiiV-” k -f/ e J-: > V••» A«,'&\f \ tAv ; i»^®3KWi• • v *’*! 
;<?:• >»> f • ■ • *v ' 

.',, v .V. V. ■ • ■' ^ %.^ >v i-rv’ : .• ‘.fe 

*i• V' v -K' $$$$» V>v 




’ ^:V „ 




mt 


if fair* 


gwjSct 


m 


IS H 




mam 


■ r. 


JQ$£& 


'4iV' 


i'.,v f: 


.y . • ^ 

. _ ••, jx».. * • ‘ .-v ••’■ 




. s'•*••’••■ v ,*' iS>» • w v : ^ 

• ^4«l / 1 *V ■■ •' ,|V..^ f • y> 




iV!«r vj^v ^i 


I 
I 

: >-■ -JL-. vV ..; :,L. . .;, ( -■ ■:<- - : a»<i^'.-*■■ 

r.•*’*• ') »*• •'-’y . *• • '•.; w '' ’*m 3 lT&L 

'V --".Yi'iV'Ar': ...if .i’. ... . -A) Wji'lVi./'. .'{®jBS'-- 

V 1 ■ ■' .'; v.v, vji.'.ivi: V..*v t Ax,. ,i- ' • '«, ■*' ' ' rfOwi/ ’ •■• ■” iv ■; ; ■ '*• r« •%${!• ". ■ r <V. •.. V : 

: 

•.,T*»V* - ’, . ' ••'. ' v\ ■ .'*»-< v*u^' : -a :• >1< iVjJtH • •:■ *.«>,*r^*VVi* 






: jg$K '' 


\VKf.i!-fsl^Xk?i''ii^'l )i-W ; V/iV^'.J'.v. 1 ' *••' ' ; 4 ' ' : 5S®" '•.. -• - ■ v • v^vY.^W- v .• 

•* i * ' r “ iv^i ^:. 








v.f .W.:..<v,i*;v.'" ..- XVT'y''; '-' '■ 


;■ ,y 


■ ’ ■ ' ■'.< yy* * ' 1 y i* J , ’;i C 

’sw^ 














COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 








9 


I 







At the Gateway 
of Song 

POEMS 

*By 

SCHUYLER R. MYERS 



1924 

THE STRATFORD COMPANY 
Publishers 

Boston, Massachusetts 






fS 3SZ.S- 

.Y&'iA 8 

/f Z.4- 


Copyright, 1924 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
Boston, Mass. 



The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 


JAN -7*24 


©C1A760610 


A A si I 


Contents 


A Maid's First Love 

Page 

1 

A Youth’s First Love . 

3 

Madison, The City of the Lakes 

5 

An Autumn Reverie . 

8 

A Rural Churchyard Reverie . 

. 11 

The Snow-Storm 

. 15 

The Planting of An Ivy 

. 19 

Cradle Song 

. 22 

Hospital Reminiscence . 

. 24 

Inward Beauty 

. 25 

Meditation in Autumn on the Death of 

Nature 

. 26 

Childhood . 

. 28 

The Stars .... 

. 29 

Mystery and Loveliness 

. 30 

Sonnet to Milton 

. 31 

To Milton in His Blindness . 

. 32 

Prophetic Confidence 

. 33 

Religious Faith . 

. 34 

The Light of Men 

. 35 

A Tale of Friendship . 

. 40 



Contents 


A Little Blind Girl . . . • . 45 

Boyhood Days . . . . .49 

Wisconsin State-House As Seen at Dawn 

from Monona’s Shore . . .56 

Morn . . . . . .61 

A Fable ...... 67 

Columbus in Fetters . . . .70 





































































































































































































































































































At the Gateway of Song 


A MAID'S FIRST LOVE 


EVER sang the birds so lovely; 



Never blushed the rose so fair; 


Every nook when you are with 
In your beauty seems to share. 

Let the darkling tempest mutter 
As the night obscures the day; 

In the sweetness of your presence 
Every fear will fly away. 

Oft amid my daily duties 
Do my thoughts return to you; 

Then the little task grows music 
Whatsoe’er these fingers do. 

Let my heart be ne’er so lonely, 

Grief and care my spirit sway; 

In a dream of your sweet presence 
Every cloud will fly away. 

Sweet it were by these fair meadows 
In a cottage hearth to dwell; 

Every still, familiar pathway 
Of our happy past would tell. 


[i] 


At the Gateway of Song 


But if fate turn cold and cruel, 
And your step afar must stray; 

For the love of your sweet presence 
I with you will fly away. 


[2] 


At the Gateway of Song 


A YOUTH'S FIRST LOVE 


M AID so fair, for but one kiss 

Lift thou up each tender lip! 
Nectar not more sweet than this 
Rose-fed bees in meadows sip. 
Morning-blithe this heart would leap 
To be drowned in bliss so deep. 


Turn, oh turn to me those eyes! 
Lift their soft-fringed curtains up! 
Let the love that in each lies 
Tenderly o’erbrim its cup! 

One soft beam from their blue light 
Robes in dawn my darkest night. 


Sweetest maid, give me thy voice! 
Tuneful harps could never wake 
Strains of more melodious noise 
Than those lovely lips do make. 
Sweet thy speech, oh sweeter far 
Than the wild-bird's warblings are! 


[3] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Yield, oh yield to me thy hand! 

O'er one rose-bud finger's tip 
Proudly would I then this band 
With its golden luster slip; 

While those cheeks shy blushes crowd 
Crimson like a morning cloud. 

O my love, give me thy heart! 

Richer prize none ever drew. 

Tender as the dove thou art; 

Pure as light in morning’s dew. 

Time hath naught I would not give 
In such bridal bonds to live. 


[4] 


At the Gateway of Song 


MADISON, THE CITY OF THE 
LAKES 


S HE bideth here where many a roof 
Peeps from its leafy screen. 

As violets from that grassy woof 
That waves round them its green. 


Her treasures rich she doth unfold 
To ply their magic spell. 

Who would not for such wealth untold 
In these fair borders dwell! 


Leaves here and gem-like flowers take, 
June-decked, their myriad dyes; 
Here change the tints of each still lake 
As change our summer skies. 

And art hath here a masterstroke 
Wrought in yon granite pile; 
Whose crest, above our city’s smoke. 
Hails many a wood-clad mile. 

[5] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Here gowned wisdom's patient hand 
Sprinkles her sapient lore; 

Here round her crowds yon youthful band, 
Lured by her golden store. 

And music here within these bounds 
Is rapt in studious hours. 

That joy through maze of magic sounds 
May wing our spirit's powers. 

City most fair, by nature graced, 

By music, learning, art, 

Thy generous cup of joy I taste; 

It binds thee to my heart. 

If fate e’er under other skies 
My listless steps prolong, 

The dream of thy sweet haunts will rise — 
All fragrance and all song. 

Though to these lips still Lethe’s mere 
Her brimful chalice gave, 

This heart would yet not cease to hear 
Strains from Monona's wave. 

Oh, never from sweet memory 
Can such bright visions fade 


[6] 


At the Gateway of Song 

As meet my look when pensively, 
Alone, in woodland shade, 

’Neath leafy richness autumn-still, 

My lingering foot intrudes 

Where rainbow-gowned upon his hill 
Cool-breathed October broods! 

For aye shall thy great dome be mine, 
Fixed in my spirit’s eye, 

As fadeless as bright stars that shine 
In midnight’s moonless sky. 

Long may’st thou, City of the Lakes, 
Loved bride of beauty be; 

Till rumor of thy sweetness breaks 
O’er farthest land and sea! 


[7] 


At the Gateway of Song 


AN AUTUMN REVERIE 


E ’EN while rings mute summer’s death-knell 
Blithe earth dons her richest vest; 

As when day’s spent life is dwindling 
Crimson-sandaled smiles the west. 


Now each frost-pinched herb is dying 
As the night-breeze waxes cold; 

Yet the leafy woods in gladness 
Wear their purple, scarlet, gold. 

'Tis earth’s way: rose-fingered beauty 
Strews white garlands o’er the tomb; 

And a smile, like sweetest childhood. 
Lightly plays mid sorrow’s gloom. 

O’er the surge-tossed shipman’s body 
Waves look blue and foam-caps fair; 

Wind-torn lilies from their petals 
With sweet incense sow the air. 

Mid the wide cathedral’s pillars 
Wakes the plaintive dirge’s strain; 

[8] 


At the Gateway of Song 

Yet there steals the organ’s sweetness 
Into each wild mourner’s pain. 

Pictured on yon traceried window. 
Cross-encumbered worth doth go; 

Yet a look, of mystic beauty, 

Like a mantle masks the woe. 

Twilight creeps with deepening shadow. 
And its dusk lies sifted far; 

Yet it lifts, to cheer the bleakness, 
Clothed in light an evening star. 

Thus doth life, like autumn, mingle 
Tears and laughter into one; 

And its midnight shadows gather 
Soft reflections from the sun. 

Yea, ’tis oft from wells of sadness 
That the richest joys upspring; 

As unseen from mists of darkness 
Nightingales their carols fling. 

Fear not then lest black-eyed sorrow 
Banish from thy heart its bliss; 

Mid all threats her blue-eyed sister 
Glads thee with her sweetest kiss. 


[9] 


At the Gateway of Song 


But with hope-uplifted spirit, 
Bruised amid life's giddy whirl, 
Labor till the torturing pebble 

Garbs its rugged breast with pearl. 


[10] 


At the Gateway of Song 


A RURAL CHURCHYARD 
REVERIE 


OVE brings me to the grassy swell 



Where thou beneath art sleeping. 


Here dewdrops on the violets tell 
Where mooned night sat weeping. 

And with the tears dark nature shed 
Mine own are freshly numbered; 

Though many winters now are fled 
Since first thy beauty slumbered. 

Some laud the credulous future's dower. 
Which lures with golden blisses. 

And some extol life’s present hour 
When wild with love’s first kisses. 

But vanished times my soul doth saint, 
Enriched by old affection; 

And doth its loveliest pictures paint 
When schooled by recollection. 

Here in this valley week by week 
I watched thy girlish splendor: 

Thy love-becrimsoned, dimpling cheek, 


[ii] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Thy sympathies sweet and tender, 

Thy strength to feel misfortune's blow 
Nor sulk with dark displeasure, 

Thy maiden virtue’s native glow, 

Thy loveliness without measure. 

At twilight sleeps day's dusty chore; 

Then I, a darkling rover, 

To thee betake, as oft before, 

My step through fragrant clover. 

The moon her silver mantle shows; 

The night's starred angels cluster; 

But yonder light thy window throws 
Outvies their fairest luster. 

That matchless morn let thought unmask 
My steps by thee did linger 

Till at thy nightly cottage task 
Deft played thy nimble finger. 

Too oft thy fancy-following breast 
From its light task was straying. 

Thine eyes, half unawares, confessed 
What secrets there were playing. 

We roamed that day through lighted air 
Or through the woodland shadow; 

[12] 


At the Gateway of Song 

For tinted gems to deck thy hair 
I robbed the spiced meadow. 

To stay thy step across the brook 
A hand, it seemed, was needed; 

Such thrill in that sweet task I took 
Its waters sang unheeded. 

A nook we found all leaf-bedimmed, 

And peaceful to completeness. 

Faintly the wind-kissed foliage hymned 
Its “Traumerei” with sweetness. 

The force of nature’s mystic spell 
Wrought miracles in our bosoms. 

Love bloomed, as doth in spring our dell, 
Its buds all changed to blossoms. 

Thy gentle hand I clasp in mine. 

Thy heart itself discloses 

As lovelier glow those cheeks of thine 
Than blush midsummer’s roses. 

By thought transformed, this happy wood 
Goes pranked in double beauty; 

The ills of life are drowned in good; 

And joy alone seems duty. 

[ 13 ] 



At the Gateway of Song 

I hold no bitter spite at Death. 

His pride seems fit for scorning. 

The spirit lives; he takes the breath. 

His night must fear the morning. 
Though mystery shrouds our wondrous life, 
Hope keeps the warm heart beating; 
Surveys through this dark mortal strife 
A star of future meeting. 

Yon cottage where I yet reside 
Seems stored with desolation. 

But dreams, that ever with me bide, 

Work marvelous transformation. 

That silent hearth is vocal still; 

For fancy hears thee singing; 

There notes thine eyes with pity fill, 

Or hails thy laughter’s ringing. 


[14] 


At the Gateway of Song 


THE SNOW-STORM 


NE morning, as I viewed the silent town, 



Where all I saw was overdomed with 


gray. 


A feathery shower of flakes came tumbling 
down. 

Some swift as pouncing hawk upon his prey 
Shot earthward; others, loitering by the way. 
Straggled about, or paused a bit. And I, 

As watching children happily skip in play, 

Was pleased to see these birdlings of the sky, 
White-winged, playfully down from their cold 
cloud-nest fly. 

Meagerly few at first, but more and more, 

Till ten times o'er as countless as the sand 
Which laboring sea-waves ridge on sloping 
shore, 

Sprinkled the storm its snow-drops o’er the 
land. 

Dim grew, and yet more dim, on every hand, 
The spire, the dwelling, and the leaf-lorn tree, 
Till all of these, save such as nearest stand, 


[i5] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Were fused to solid gray. A mite to me 
Remained of that broad prospect I am wont to 
see. 

O generous storm, how thou hast richly dressed 
This brown old earth in velvet of pure white! 
Surely I dare affirm that keenest quest 
Of eagle-sighted eye were baffled quite 
To find thereon one tiniest speck that might 
Be counted soilure. Oh do thou, I pray, 
Uncloud the sun, that sparklings, diamond- 
bright, 

May kindle all where in the flashing ray! 

Could aught of beauty’s best then rival such dis¬ 
play? 

A modest workman thou; no vain parade. 

No boast, nor loud and flaunting show is there 
In thine achievement, as is seen displayed 
Oft in the summer’s clamorous downpour, 
where 

The frequent lightnings spread a dazzling flare, 
And splinter oak, and boom with ponderous 
sound; 

And swaggering winds make threat on threat to 
tear 


[16] 


At the Gateway of Song 

The grasping, sinewy root from out its ground. 
Yet is thy noiseless task with equal blessing 
crowned. 

Why, mute of footfall, hast thou hither 
strayed? 

Thy secret purpose to mine ear disclose. 

No word? I’ll deem thee then a timid maid, 
Who saw’st this earth when through his veins 
there flows 

The blood of full-blown springtide, and the 
firstling rose 

And violet variegate his emerald dress, 

And lovedst him; and now in his repose 
Of winter sleep thou comest to caress, 

And to unconscious lips soft-lapsing kisses press. 

Thy myriad flakes — with pains thou wrought- 
est each, 

The cream of artistry. And yet of these 
How few are ever viewed! Storm, didst thou 
teach 

The dextrous Greek, who set the storied frieze 
High in the temple’s dusk, where no man sees, 
Chipping thereon as much of beauty’s spell 
As graced his marbles eyes discerned with ease? 


At the Gateway of Song 


Each dainty snow-drop thou hast wrought so 
well 

Of thy transcendent workmanship doth mutely 
tell. 




At the Gateway of Song 


THE PLANTING OF AN IVY 


Written for Arbor Day ceremonies of a 
public school. 


TYY THIS brick wall 
L-' Of learning’s hall, 

Where echoes mock the children’s call, 
A tender vine 
We here resign 

To earth’s upbuilding powers benign. 


Let fairest day 
Her sunlight play 
On the damp soil’s encircling clay, 

Till it wax warm 
And shield from harm 
Of shriveling frost this slender form. 

Here will it grow 
From snow to snow, 

While winds lie hushed or tempests blow. 
Through moments mild, 


[i9] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Through moments wild, 

Kind Mother Earth will tend her child. 

May nature dower 
Each creeping hour 

With force to shape this leafy bower; 
Until at last, 

When years are past, 

This wall with green be overcast. 

A summer scene 
Of living green, 

In fall it waves a crimson screen; 

But brown and bare 
In the wintry air 

It hangs like coarse and tangled hair 

Though, like a thief, 

In season brief 

Chill winter pluck each fading leaf, 

The spell of spring 
New life will bring, 

And round it fuller vesture fling. 

Here shall be heard 
The warbling bird; 

C20] 


At the Gateway of Song 


While music of the leaf, wind-stirred. 
Shall softly fall 
On the mantled wall, 

And mingle with the belfry’s call. 

You who today 
In bright array 

Plant here this upward-climbing spray. 
In learning’s quest 
Let eager zest 

Uplead you to some noble crest. 

Thus you, my class, 

Each lad and lass, 

Who daily truth’s rich stores amass. 
Shall scale the height 
Whose morning bright 
O’ertops your valley’s lessening night. 


At the Gateway of Song 


CRADLE SONG 

S LUMBER till dawn wake thee. 
Baby, in thy bed. 

May no terror shake thee, 
Though dark shadows spread. 
Listening love shall never 
Fail to note thy cry. 

Loving hands shall ever 
To thy comfort fly. 

Night, through your dark borders 
Send but breezes warm; 

And, through strictest orders, 
Banish cloud and storm. 

Let the bright stars twinkle 
From their rounded deep, 

And all nature sprinkle 
Sounds that nourish sleep. 

Day, when morn breaks o’er us, 
Brightening clouds and rills, 
Lure thy winged chorus 
From their leafy hills. 

[22] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Bid them fling their sweetest 
Notes round baby's nest, 

And with warblings meetest 
Glad her waking breast. 

Whether night or day be 

Rolled through east and west, 
All things love thee, Baby, 

Give thee of their best. 

Earth spread out her treasure. 

Heaven her grace bestow. 

Love in unbound measure 
Through all channels flow. 


[ 23 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


HOSPITAL REMINISCENCE 


S O LOVELY didst thou look when in gray 
morn 

Thou cam’st into our room with fairy 
tread, 

Blooming with grace — as of an angel born — 
From thy fair ankles to thy dainty head! 

Thine eyes gleamed soft and gentle, and so blue. 
How at the sight of them my pain did flee! 

And from thy voice, as music sweet, I drew 
Such charms as from all heaviness do free. 

So good it was, sweet maid, when thou wert by. 
Bending above my bed with gentle care, 

Thy cheeks rose-tinted as at dawn the sky, 

Thy snow-white cap perched lightly in thy 
hair! 

Oh could I then have held thee to my breast, 

Of all earth’s daughters loveliest, gentlest, best! 


[24] 


At the Gateway of Song 


INWARD BEAUTY 


W HEN I contemplate thy sweet beauty’s 
store, 

And think how greedy time will spare 
it not, 

But with rude wrinkles write thy smoothness 
o’er. 

And from thy ruined cheeks bright roses blot, 
While fades the luster of thy golden hair, 

And dulness mars thine eyes' mirth-sparkling 
blue, 

And all that in thee's fair is made not-fair, 

As buds of summer when chill blasts ensue, 
Light is the grief I feel that this is so; 

For well I see, whatever change befall 
Those traits of beauty that the eye doth know, 
Thy soul’s rich beauty can no change appall. 
Thy virtue and thy love soil not with age. 

But, stone in strength, repel time’s stubborn 
rage. 


[25] 


At the Gateway of Song 


MEDITATION IN AUTUMN ON 
THE DEATH OF NATURE 



GREAT life now hath gone into its 


tomb. 


That fluttering green, which whispered 
when the breeze 

Shook the gray branches, now by winter’s doom 

Spreads in dry death beneath the unburdened 
trees. 

Those numberless blades which once in quiet 
mirth 

Sipped their green substance from the April rain. 

Mantling in cloak of grass the bemeadowed 
earth. 

Shroud ’neath their wilted stems bleak autumn’s 
plain. 

No bird-lulled morn walks forth in garment 
gray 

With dew the cups of her sweet flowers to fill; 

For those frail forms, that with mild winds did 


play, 


[26] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Crushed ’neath the weight of frost, lie cold and 
still. 

Spread then, gray wintry sky, your pall of 
snow, 

And with wind flutes a sweet, sad requiem blow. 


[27] 


At the Gateway of Song 


CHILDHOOD 


F REE-HEARTED child, in thee no base 
alloy 

Stains the pure mind five summers could 
bestow. 

Thy deeds, thy words but image the sweet joy 
That bubbles in thy breast. Thy life doth glow 
Richer in promise than gray morning’s star. 
Which augurs the blue noon; or roses fair 
Ere yet their scarlet curls unhooded are 
To sate with beauty the betwitched air. 

I love to watch thee at thy gentle play. 

And catch the happy laughter in thy glance. 

My weary cares in it are swept away; 
Disburdened thoughts to its gay music dance. 
All pain and anguish from thy footfall flee! 
Long chant thy maiden mind its native glee! 


[28] 


At the Gateway of Song 


THE STARS 


HAT mystic sweetness in those tran 



quil fires 


That in the blackness of deep midnight 
burn! 

Beribboned splendor, as I well discern, 

Mars not the mantle that night’s bareness tires. 
No dazzling colors flare; but starry choirs, 

Clad in their native sweetness, earthward turn 
Nightly their swan-white loveliness, and spurn 
Betinseled trim, to which vain man aspires. 
Crimson yon stretch of eastern cloud, gay morn, 
When with o’er-bubbling mirth our spirits play. 
Or fame upbears us on its curbless flight. 

But when sweet love from a maid’s glance is 
born, 

Or saints kneel meekly at their shrines to pray, 
Visit thy dusk, star-roofed abode, fair night. 


[29] 


At the Gateway of Song 


MYSTERY AND LOVELINESS 


HE cloud-born gold of an autumnal eve 



Now melts to bleakness; and night’s dingy 


hour 


A deep-felt mystery doth sweetly weave 

O’er bush, and darkling pine, and tall church- 
tower. 

Through the dun vault of night a weird bell- 
note 

Chimes o’er broad-watered banks to timorous 
ears. 

Some plaintive night-bird from its ominous 
throat 

Crowds the dream-amorous breast with pleasing 
fears. 

Low on the verge of yon dark western sky — 

O’er her trim shape the vast star-peopled night— 

The sweet moon’s blushing nakedness doth lie. 

And weds her crescent’s beauty to my sight. 

With fathomless mystery and chaste loveliness 

Doth night’s bold alchemy our spirits bless. 


[30] 


At the Gateway of Song 


SONNET TO MILTON 


M ILTON, ’twas said that thou didst 
wrongly then 

When from the muse's path thou didst 
depart, 

Forsaking, as might seem, thy noble art, 

The fruit whereof thou owedst to all men — 
Those visions of high thought which from thy 
pen 

Did later soar — to hurl thy piercing dart 
In party strife, sore labor for that heart 
Which three broad worlds could circle in its 
ken. 

I judge not so. No narrow spirit wrought 
To drag thee from Parnassus; duty spake, 

Stern voice wherein thou ever took’st delight. 
For liberty of life, of soul, of thought, 

O’er England at that hour in fear did quake 
Lest it by tyrant’s doom should vanish quite. 


[3i] 


At the Gateway of Song 


TO MILTON IN HIS BLINDNESS 


S UN-LOVING eagle, though thy day had 
fled, 

Thou didst not doom thyself to sit on 
earth 

In mute dejection with thy wing unspread. 
That hope which in thy daytime had its birth 
Was wedded to thee still; and thou didst seek. 
Great soul, undaunted and untamed by night, 
To be companion of the cloud and peak. 
Enamored still of bold, adventurous flight. 

Nor sun, nor moon, nor star reigned in the sky 
To light for thee this world with radiant beam; 
Yet with thy spirit’s light thou didst descry 
Huge forms that dwell in vision or bright dream. 
In daring song thine awe thou didst display; 
Then night did go as death brought in thy day. 


[32] 


At the Gateway of Song 


PROPHETIC CONFIDENCE 


OT cold indifference, nor biting scorn, 



Nor the sly snares of falsehood can pre¬ 


vail 


Against hold truth so far that it shall fail, 

Or from some seeming death be not reborn. 

But like the imperial sun, which in the morn 
Breaks from the cold confinement of night’s jail. 
Swift to its destined height its strength will 
scale, 

Nor shall one burning beam be from it shorn. 
For never dream that man’s high-purposed 
mind, 

Wrought in the likeness of the Great Unseen, 
Can sit at ease while truth hath not the crown. 
God will speak forth and sturdy champions find, 
Whose sleepless hearts will never rest, I ween, 
Till falsehood’s castled might be battered down. 


[ 33 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


RELIGIOUS FAITH 


A S IN that painting where the Virgin 
stands, 

Holding her babe, and where with pious 
mien 

The meek Saint Barbara kneels with clasped 
hands, 

While vested round in pompous garb is seen 
The pope, with eyes uplift and temples bare, 

As if he begged some boon for needy men, 
That numberless band of cherubs in the air 
Its winged presence opens to our ken; 

Or as at Dothan on the hill-tops stood 
The fiery chariots when proud Syria’s host 
Besieged the prophet, and their hardihood 
Was quickly shattered like an idle boast; 

So heaven doth stand about us hour by hour, 
And yields to virtuous deeds celestial power. 


[ 34 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


THE LIGHT OF MEN 


'THROUGH many-centuried time 
^ Still glows that truth sublime 
Which through thy deeds outflamed its mar¬ 
velous way. 

For on earth’s soil below 
Did ne’er such virtue grow 
As might with ampler force our spirits sway. 
What depth of saintliness is there 
In time’s earth-compassing sea doth with thine 
own compare? 

’Twas well that inward light 
Should sing with fabling might 
Its cradle-songs of love to greet thy birth: 

See wise men from afar 
Follow that westering star 
On quest of wisdom of transcendent worth; 
And through the night hear angels sing. 
And news of world-wide joy to awe-struck 
shepherds bring. 

[35] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Calm as a summer day 
Upon their quiet way 

Thy feet set out to pace their wondrous 
course. 

No zeal that’s overwarm, 

No John-the-Baptist storm, 

Broke the large wisdom of thy milder force. 
Thy strength no debt to loudness owes; 

By potent meekness did it win and firm repose. 

Thy listeners from thee heard 
No forced or servile word, 

And each strong deed spake echo of thy soul. 
No art of courtly grace 
Made the dissembling face 
Hide what the bosom thought like broidered 
stole. 

Sincerity o’er thee did rule; 

Thy works thy spirit show like some still- 
watered pool. 

Not in some bounded rule 
Shaped by the bookish school. 

Waging to picture truth its futile strife, 

But in that inward glow 
Which the sage heart doth know 


[ 36 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Thou found’st a northern star that leads to 
life. 

Nature to thee thy goodness brings; 
Soul-free as summer brook thou art that seaward 
sings. 

For God in nature lives, 

And to each spirit gives 
A sense to know what brings it to its best. 
Man’s heart doth prize the right 
And saintliness breeds delight 
If but the pious mood inspire the breast. 

God greets us in the rising sun, 

And manhood at its best and deity are one. 

From the Judean hill, 

From cool Siloa’s rill, 

What blessings from thy deed have westward 
spread! 

Through many-tinctured panes 
Of huge, rock-buttressed fanes 
Dim o’er the kneeling throng the light was 
shed; 

Thy life, a richer light, doth play 
On them and other throngs down to this current 
day. 


[ 37 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Bright Christmas carols swell, 

And from glad Easter’s bell 
Joy fills the bosoms in each steepled land; 
While nursed on yonder bed, 

Which charity hath spread, 

Sick poverty’s lip doth bless the cooling hand; 
Gray-beard despair wears curls of youth, 
And selfish thought is changed to be the friend 
of truth. 

The sweet Madonna’s face 
And thy fair infant grace 
Deftly hath paint to tinted splendors 
wrought. 

Music from days of yore 
In mass or anthem’s score 
Hath hymned in thy glad praise its mystic 
thought. 

The poet’s beauty-garnering pen 
Proudly hath rhymed the story of the light of 
men. 

But O thou man of men, 

Never so strong as when 
Thy gentleness of love did humbly flow. 
There at thy mortal loss 

[ 38 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Upon the painful cross 
How sweet that prayer for bitter hearts did 
glow! 

Sin shuddered at dread Sinai's smoke; 

But such self-blotting love doth quell with 
mightier stroke. 

Purged by thy mighty prayer, 

May selfish nations spare 
To spoil each other with a greedy paw; 
Forsake that murderous car 
That stuffs blood-gulping war, 

To build their common good on swordless 
law; 

Trade curb her over-active quest, 

In fanes and beauty’s halls to feed her spirit’s 
best! 


[39] 


At the Gateway of Song 


A TALE OF FRIENDSHIP 


W HERE a city lifts its towers, 
And a sea’s blue tossings lave 
Land that never lacks its flowers, 
Justice rules a statesman brave. 


Nobly doth he ply his calling; 

Ne’er deserts strict honor’s path. 

Yet can goodness save one’s falling 
Victim to a tyrant’s wrath — 

Wrath which rages without reason. 

Wild as storm-brewed mountain flood; 

Brands all opposition treason, 

Though it brings the city good? 

Falling thus, he pines enshrouded 
In the murky dungeon’s gloom, 

Bound in chains; his heart o'erclouded 
Waits the bloody bolt of doom. 

“Four swift hours shall not sweep over,” 
Snarls the king with murderous breath, 

[40] 


At the Gateway of Song 

“Ere proud Damon shall discover 
To disdain my will is death. 

“Ere yon sun, now high in heaven. 
Drives his chariot on the wave, 

Shall that traitorous knave be given 
Habitation in his grave/' 

Yet he's noblest of all creatures 

'Neath that bend of southern sky; 

Gentlest thought hath shaped his features. 
Loftiest purpose lights his eye. 

In his breast no demon voices 
Cry dishonor on his name; 

Conscience-clear, his thought rejoices 
In a life that owns no blame. 

Yet, despite such comfort, sorrow 
Thickening turns his blue to gray. 

Can one tearless eye the morrow 
That shall leave one soulless clay? 

But his heaviest thoughts stray yonder 
To his wife and babe at home. 


[41] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Sadly soon their steps will wander 
Where the sleepless sea-waves foam. 

And his breast is deeply yearning 
For the comfort they might bring — 

But whose footsteps there are turning 
Toward that palace of the king? 

With all courtesy befitting 

There he kneels before the throne 

Where the vengeful monarch’s sitting. 
Generous purpose swells his tone 

As he cries, “O King, I pray you. 

Set the dungeoned Damon free 

For a few brief hours; so may you 
By just heaven rewarded be. 

“Let him ride once more where sadly 
Grieves his wife. Put me in chain! 

Take my life — I give it gladly — 

If he come not back again!’* 

Thus speaks Pythias, but the rabble, 
Veered by every gust that’s raised, 

[ 42 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Growl their base vituperous babble 
’Gainst the man they lately praised. 

Pythias wins bis bold petition; 

On bis wrist now clanks the chain. 
Damon, with the king’s permission, 
Gallops o’er the grassy plain, 

Where the bleak, unquiet ocean 
Caps its moving waves in foam. 

In his breast as wild commotion! 

He once more shall see his home! 

There the gentle head that’s dearest 
Shall upon his shoulder rest, 

While her tearful eyes yield clearest 
Visions of a tender breast. 

And once more shall baby fingers 
With light touch caress his cheek. 
As in silence thus he lingers 

With a heart too full to speak. — 

Arrow-swift the hours are passing. 
Round the headsman's fatal ax 


[43] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Ghoul-like now a mob is massing. 

Who’s to pay the bloody tax? 

Now the wearied sun lies sleeping, 
Blanketed with vermilion cloud. 
Blotting shades in stealth are creeping. 
Wherefore jeers that fickle crowd? 

Pythias comes to pay the forfeit. 

Not one doubt his look betrays 
Of his friend’s faith. What is more fit 
To be crowned with generous praise! 

Let them jeer, the unbelieving — 

Jeer at Pythias and his trust. 

Where faith dies, there’s no achieving 
Friendship’s goal. But note yon dust! 

How that steed with furious bounding 
Wafts his spurring rider here! 

Damon comes! Now loud resounding 
Rings the air with cheer on cheer. 

Friendship is no spurious gilding. 

Rim to center purest gold; 

Like a rock-foundationed building, 

Firm though torrents wild be rolled. 


[44] 


At the Gateway of Song 


A LITTLE BLIND GIRL 



'HERE stood she on an April lawn; 


The happy birds sang loud. 


And sweetly in the warbling dawn 

Her lily face, snow-white as fawn, 
Gleamed on a flaming cloud. 

From every nook of her pale face 
Peeped forth her gentle soul. 

Such mystic thought, sucn tender grace, 

As fits a maid I there did trace 
Clear as in lettered scroll. 

I said, ‘'My pretty maid, how sad 
The darkness in thine eye! 

Thou dost not see this bright earth clad 

In herb and blossom, nor the glad 
Blue laughter of the sky." 

“Yet grieve not, stranger, for my lot," 
Her patient lips replied. 

“Though to my nighted eyes this spot 


[45] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Of springtide earth is but a blot, 

Deep joys are not denied. 

“I cannot see the rose unfold 
Her splendors to the light. 

Proud buttercups display their gold. 
Meek violets peep forth purple-stoled. 
Invisible in my night. 

“Yet doth the earth rich fragrance yield 
Through all her budded year; 

And sweetest music is unsealed 
In pipings of the grove and field; 

And lisping winds roam here. 

“So many pleasant sounds there be 
My heart with sunlight fills: 

Brisk robins in the bur-oak tree 
That overbrim the morn with glee; 

Pert meadow-watering rills 

“That bubble over pebbled ways; 

The weird, unbodied breeze 
Which sweetly through the leafy maze 
Of quivering birch or poplar strays; 
Faint lullaby of bees; 


[46] 


At the Gateway of Song 


“And then at eve the tender song 
That mother croons to me, 

Till every dread and sense of wrong 
Seems lulled in silence — silence long 
As vast eternity. 

“Sometimes with memories I beguile 
My sable hours away: 

My father’s face, my mother’s smile, 
All visions that I had the while 
Ere yet I lost my day. 

“Tear-drops in tender eyes appear, 
From melting pity wrung; 

I cannot see them, but I hear — 

And sweet it is to me — the tear 
That softens in the tongue. 

“This world is such a kind abode, 
All hearts so full of care 
To make my load a lighter load, 

To make my road a smoother road, 
My winter mild and fair. 

“And, stranger, if at times this earth 
Scowls in her mood of wrath, 


[47] 


At the Gateway of Song 


If blustering tempests banish mirth; 

While thunders howl o'er lightning’s birth. 
As if to do me scathe, 

“Yet I, meek, timorous, trembling dove, 
Beyond these threatenings see, 

In the far heavens that stretch above. 

The smile of Everlasting Love; 

At once all dread doth flee.” 

Her pallid brow no more is isled 
Where clouds o’erred the east; 

But her strong faith and spirit mild 
O’ershine me still; a little child 
I reverence as my priest. 

And when my thought doth turn to you, 
Sweet maid, now in your shroud. 

At once there beams upon my view 
The silver edge, so bright of hue, 

That nightly rims the cloud. 


[48] 


At the Gateway of Song 


BOYHOOD DAYS 


A T MEMORY’S nod I travel back 
Into far boyhood’s prime; 

Though much be painted there, alack! 
That’s blackened o'er by time. 


Yet mid the blotting grime of years 
Some pictured forms peep through; 
Youth-tinctured joys and lightsome fears 
Sweep thence into my view. 

Awhile, then, will I linger here 
In life’s unclouded May, 

Where joy’s fair leaf grows never sere; 
’Tis the bright land of play. 


Lo, where the melting breezes float 
In spring o’er maples bare! 

Thrilled by the morn, with trumpet throat 
The red-breast carols there. 


And in the hedgerows east and west 
My greedy look may spy 


At the Gateway of Song 


The bluebird; his trim-feathered vest 
Apes the sea-tinted sky. 

Long, too, ere winter-battling spring 
Doth like a lamb appear, 

The windflower from its nook I bring, 
First-born of the new year. 

The wind-built clouds — I watch them shine 
Aloft in summer's blue. 

I woo the lisping, sea-voiced pine 

When the feeble north blows through. 

Yon spotless cloud it is my boat; 

From earth it sails so far. 

In fancy on its deck I float; 

And birds my boatmen are. 

Forth through the light, o’er field and hedge, 
Floats eagle-like my car. — 

Lone on the wide world’s eastern edge 
Climbs the sweet evening star. 

Not colored now we take our flight 
As when the sun, hung low, 

Did dip his brush in crimson light, 

And sweep from stern to bow; 


At the Gateway of Song 


But the blond moon her silver beams 
Upon our sails doth play, 

As many a starry cresset gleams 
Where through the dark we stray. 

But shunning now these airy dreams, 
Births from a teeming brain, 

To view what is, and not what seems, 

I pace our earth again. 

Beside the brook with rod I sit; 
Beneath, cool fishes stray. 

The sun burns hot, and yet no whit 
Annoys his scorching ray. 

Or else the lilied pond I wade 
To seek for milk-white spoil; 

Or mid the breeze-rocked poplar’s shade 
Pursue some sportive toil. 

Now beats the rain; the racing surge 
Swells, and o’errides the brim 

Of the slender stream; my spirits urge 
Therein to dive and swim. 

When winds uprise and mutter loud, 
Bending old trees in wrath, 

[5i] 


At the Gateway of Song 


And thunders, plunging through the cloud, 
Shriek on their crooked path; 

When leaves in crowds go skipping past, 
Like swift valkyries flee 

With wildering sweep on moaning blast; 
Oh then, what joy to be 

A playmate of the storm, and feel 
The push of its deep might, 

Watching with fear huge tree-tops reel 
As wild with dark delight! 

But joy more sweet! the barefoot maid! 
What richer bloom hath May! 

Where clustered oaks fling dappled shade 
Our happy footfalls stray. 

And lightly here across the stream 
Her merry foot doth bound. 

How in her locks a nestling beam 
Of sun-gold glimmers round! 

Flowers that bewitch the winds of June 
Her cherub looks outvie; 

No rill that runs can match the tune 
That in her speech doth lie. 

[52] 


At the Gateway of Song 


At church how sweetly o’er the book, 

When morning prayers are read. 

With meek and unaffected look, 

She bends her guileless head! 

A glow of rich vermilion light, 

Flown from a window there, 

High-arched, with saints and prophets dight, 
Kisses her loose brown hair. 

And when the soft, rich music floats 
Down to my spellbound ears, 

With raptures like those fabled notes 
Chimed by the moving spheres, 

Its sweetness with my thoughts of her 
Blends to pure harmony; 

Idly I muse: “What if she were 
Melted to melody!” 

Quick magic bides in autumn’s cold; 

A rose is every leaf. 

But soon each shrub will shed its gold; 
Beauty is sweet, but brief. 

For autumn comes with spoiling hand; 

Then all things droop and die. 


[53] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The crisp leaves race in withered band. 
And a mad wind mounts the sky. 

A sable night falls drear and bleak; 

The wind's sad spirit moans. 

The gust-blown gate’s huge hinges creak 
By those cold marble stones. 

And that broad willow that waves o’er 
The sober churchyard gate — 

With cautious foot I it explore; 

For there some ghost may wait, 

In sheeted muteness grimly haunt 
The dusk of that old tree. 

Till the rude cock its courage daunt 
With shrill-pitched prophecy. 

Though winter comes in mood severe. 

He brings his store of fun; 

I track the game (they fly in fear) 

With eager dog, and gun. 

Here on the ice, a merry crowd. 

We cut our scudding flight; 

Our glad halloo, our laughter loud, 
Tunes the mute dome of night. 

[54] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The stars with bright-eyed twinkle seem 
To greet us with their smile; 

While meteor-swift, like some wild dream, 
Flits by each frosty mile. 

Farewell then now, ye happy years 
When life was in its flower; 

Yet often come — your coming cheers — 
To bless some listless hour. 

For it were well if sober age 
Oft heard its songs of youth, 

And scrawled some rich, romantic page 
In its deep tomes of truth. 


[55] 


At the Gateway of Song 


WISCONSIN STATE-HOUSE AS 
SEEN AT DAWN FROM 
MONONA'S SHORE 


A S NIGHT doth cease, thou snowy pride, 
To mask thee like an Eastern bride, 

To gaze at thee the morn, gray-eyed. 
Doth gladly wake; 

And paints thee in the breezeless tide 
Of this pure lake. 

Now let the sun, from night’s cool rest, 

Leap from his bed with glowing breast, 

And dash upon thy golden crest 
His surge of fire; 

Till o’er yon cloud-encumbered west 
Red beams expire. 

Yea, thou most lovely art when day 
Wings the broad arch of his blue way, 

And clouds of snow in beauty stray 
O’er thy tall head, 

While wide-outstretched below gleams May 
In floral spread. 

[56] 


At the Gateway of Song 


But lovelier art thou still by night, 

When in dark robe mild heaven is dight, 

And broods o’er thee the pale starlight 
With its soft beam. 

Wrought on the dark of wave-foam white 
Thou then dost seem. 

A temple art thou, built to stay? 

Or frostwork, which the next new day 
With scourge of fire will drive away 
In steaming flight. 

And leave our hearts beneath the sway 
Of lost delight? 

Nature then wore her sunniest mirth 
When here she wrought this stretch of earth — 
These fragrant hills with their rich birth 
Of woodland green. 

Bright in the still lake’s watery girth 
Their pictures sheen. 

Perchance some spirits, hovering near, 

Such as do haunt night’s candled sphere 
Or wing day’s turquoise regions clear, 

With whist amaze 


[57] 


At the Gateway of Song 


This wonder eyed, and said, “We’ll here 
Our palace raise.” 

Then at the waving of their wand 
From the blue sky a fairy band 
Sang loud their madrigals o’er the land; 
Nor could there be 

Music more sweet than was this grand 
Song symphony. 

Dull granite heard, and from its bed 
In caverned mountain hither fled; 

Gray block to block was firmly wed 
As rose the wall; 

Till, melody-built, the great dome’s head 
Surmounted all. 

Alas! I dream. Not mystic power. 

Not sky-born music bade thee tower 
Or shaped for thee thy deathless dower. 
Loud labor’s strife, 

The grime and strain of many an hour 
Gave thee thy life. 

Not from one brain thy birth was brought; 
But art in age-long labors wrought, 

[58] 


At the Gateway of Song 


And spirits led by beauty sought 
For forms sublime. 

Thus shin’st thou now in splendors caught 
From far-off time. 

Some charms that in cathedraled Rome 
Lure pilgrims to St. Peter's dome. 

Or grace Athena's crumbling home 
'Neath Attic skies. 

O'er slopes that kiss Monona's foam 
In granite rise. 

High o’er the slumbering city's bed, 
Beneath thou seest the world outspread — 
Wide-circling hills, where morn hath shed 
Her dole of dew; 

And rill-bound lakes, a slim gray thread 
Beaded with blue. 

Young child of art, a soberer bloom 
Shall touch thee when thy years assume 
The dignity which age doth doom 
To mortal state, 

And here beneath thy walls find room 
Deeds that are great. 

[59] 


At the Gateway of Song 


This life that in our breasts doth glow, 
Dislodged by its relentless foe. 

Shall swift to dark oblivion flow. 

Like a breaker's foam; 

Yet still will tower o'er all laid low 
Thy spacious dome. 

Live then, and bless each mortal throng 
That seeks thee through the ages long. 
Sing from thy hill sweet beauty's song, 
Music for eye. 

Fear not lest time shall do thee wrong; 
Thou canst not die. 


[60] 


At the Gateway of Song 


MORN 


D EW-LOCKED, melodious morn so bright, 
Mother of health and deep delight, 

Soon at our rills thy light shall play. 

For dawn’s now fading star doth say 
Tonight’s pale watchmen thou art near; 

While the loud cock, his trumpet clear 
Blown through the dusk with startling might, 
Hath put each fairy dance to flight, 

And banished to its sod-roofed lair 
Each bloodless ghost that took the air. 

What though thy sun’s gray-hooded face 
As yet deigns not these hills to grace! 

See oracled in yon scaling east: 

Night its Cimmerian rule hath ceased. 

Sweet summary of wild nature’s power 
To tune with joy each laughing hour, 

Whose native store of ambered curls 
Contemns all artifice of pearls, 

Nor needs the witcheries of the rose, 

Nor diamond combs, nor silken bows — 

Since in its own sweet beauty’s might 


At the Gateway of Song 


It yields the utmost of delight — 

Come, the dewdrops cool the flower; 

Guide my step through morning's hour. 

For the sights which I shall see 
Show nature's free simplicity; 

Such as in thy beauty lies, 

Which hath art to purge mine eyes 
And bid new splendors to be seen 
In simple vales and woodlands green. 

But ere I trace thy dew-dropped heel, 

A brief space let my spirit feel 
Divinely deep that joyance bright 
Which there upwells at the birth of light. 
From the dun east, like peerless youth. 
Unconquerable as the might of truth, 
Through swart, night-harboring atmosphere 
Bounds forth thy light in glad career; 

And so doth flood the breast with joy 
That cares, nor fears, nor doubts annoy. 

Not the bright trumpets which resound 
When Radames, with victory crowned, 

Sees at near hand the Theban gate, 

Where grateful words his valor wait, 

Bring to the brain more surging cheer 
Than when dawn's first sweet beams appear, 
And a new day down eastern hills 


[62] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Trips jubilant on o’er woods and rills; 
While o’er the mind such song doth play 
As girds it for life’s heaviest day. 

Forth then, sweet herald of delight, 

Ere the drab dawn can make its flight. 
Slow-trampling first, through arched grove, 
With amorous ear my soul would rove. 
Where leaf-screened birds for matins meet; 
Whose glad emotions, organ-sweet. 

Reflect through raptures of their tune 
Rich splendors of a morn in June. 

For deep within their tufted bower, 
Through prescience of quick fancy's power, 
Their peering thoughts may haply spy 
Yon long gray strip of eastern sky 
Morn-frescoed with such magic tint 
As once did Titian’s pigments print, 

With ripeness of Venetian taste, 

On those brisk shapes his pencil traced. 

But now that sylvan anthem’s o’er. 

I would with thy fair leave explore 
The windings of that wayward brook 
Which lake ward runs its warbling crook; 
There let my wistful spirit glean 
Deep quiet from yon rural scene, 

Where tranquil as a baby’s sleep 

[63] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The spirit of repose doth creep 
O’er all below yon windless sky, 

Which broods in mute serenity. 

As awed by sense of Power Divine. 

And sweet it is to chant the line — 

Here where the babbling streamlet crooks — 
Which sings of ‘‘books in running brooks, 
Sermons in stones,” and good in all 
That crowds this turquoise-canopied ball; 
And list in dream those woodland ditties, 
Which, far remote from fame and cities. 
Yield blitheness to that banished throng 
That scour the wilds with merry song; 

In scorn of courts, where custom kills. 
Such prize pursue as freedom wills. 

But fare thee well, sweet Arden’s wood. 
Lured dreamwise by this pastoral mood 
Where trombone, horn, bassoon, and string, 
With flute and oboe, featly bring 
The quickening soul beneath the spell 
That in some rural nook doth dwell. 

On such symphonic strain I soar 
To thoughts more sweet than e’er before 
Were gathered from the murmuring sound 
Of April brooklets seaward bound. 

Or chirp of bird, or rumbling loud 

[64] 


At the Gateway of Song 


That shakes the rude storm-pregnant cloud. 
For nature’s winsomeness doth soar 
On wings of that orchestral score 
Whose rapt finale breathes the prayer 
Of grateful shepherds when the air, 
Recapturing now its tranquil state, 

Each bodeful, muttering tone doth bate. 

But yon rivulet’s tripping measure 
Now invites to lighter pleasure, 

And its sweet, resistless gleam 
Quells the visions of my dream. 

Then let me my fortunes try 
Where the nibbling fish do lie 
Low in that still-watered pool 
Which an oak’s huge shadows cool. 

But if, mistrustful of my hook, 

Each cautious denizen of the brook 
Shall disdain its beckoning lure — 

Though patience cool might yet endure — 
Guide me in thy gracious power 
To other joys that fit the hour. 

Lead on then, pray, where o’er the green 
Brisk urchins sport in joyance keen: 

Smite quick the brown-striped gopher when 
He plunges from his flooded den; 

Or speed into their nets to bring 

[ 65 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The butterfly with speckled wing; 

Or curb, on its wild, azure flight 
O’er the tall spire, their mounted kite. 

Then bid my looks more gladly stray 
Where yonder loose-locked maidens play, 

As in their apron’s fold they glean 
A floral harvest from the green — 

Rich clover-blooms of purple hue. 

Trim violets garbed in kirtles blue, 

Wild roses (that bespice the breeze) 

Made vocal by the laboring bees — 

To deck their playhouse, crudely made, 
Under the broad-branched maple’s shade. 

But see, the dew-drenched morn hath fled; 
Advancing noontide’s withering tread, 
Which thou, auroral maid, dost fear, 
Forewarns me that the time is near 
Of midday rest. Begone! begone! 

But greet me at the next new dawn. 


[ 66 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


A FABLE 

Suggested by Henry van Dykes story , “A 
Handful of Clay.” 

T HOUGH set before thee in a simple way, 
Hear thou this story of a piece of clay, 
Which long had slumbered on its saffron 
bed, 

While slow-paced ages with majestic tread 
Over it swept on their wide-circling round. 
Then was it spaded from the lowly ground, 

And put into the potter’s hand, and there 
By deftly shaping art and plodding care 
Was crushed and molded till it stood complete; 
Then hardened slowly in the glowing heat. 

“Much patient labor was bestowed on me. 
Might I but look upon myself. I’d see,” 

It thought, “such beauty as divinely shows 
Its crimson splendors in the budding rose, 

Or dwells aloft upon the bended bow 
That vernal sunbeams on the raindrops throw. 
More fair am I than is the fairest star; 


[ 67 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


More richly tinted than bright mornings are. 

Or those rare lights that in the diamond play.” 

Deceitful fancy, soon to flit away! 

Ere sober night did into blackness dye 
And trim with stars the sapphire of the sky, 

It stood upon a bank beside a pool, 

And saw reflected in the waters cool 
Its own clear image. In the sleeping tide, 
Which like a polished mirror lay, it spied 
No form of beauty, but a vessel crude. 

As if 'twere fashioned by some artist rude. 

Now while it languished in a grief profound, 
A gardener came, and snatched it from the 
ground, 

And filled it with soft earth, and planted there 
A rough, dark bulb, whence shot into the air 
A stateliness of stem. The leaves’ dark green 
Gave comely setting to the ample sheen 
Of snow-white blossoms that adorned its head. 

“Now clearly do I see,” the vessel said, 

“The purpose of my life. It is not mine 
In beauty's charms to dazzle and to shine. 
Rather in lowly guise let me uphold 
Where all may see the green, the white, the gold, 
Of this sweet Easter lily." Thus content 
Henceforth its powers to this one aim it bent. 


[ 68 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The knowledge gleaned by toil from learned 
books. 

From study of the flowers or running brooks, 
From history’s long and many-pictured page. 
From sober sayings of the deep-browed sage, 

Or from the language of that mystic scroll 
Read when the eye turns inward on the soul, — 
What is it? But an ornament? a show? 

Looks it no higher? Does it aim so low? 
Regard it as a vessel from whose cup — 

Such be its noble part! — there may grow up 
The Easter lily of a soul that’s rife 
With the strong merits of a worthy life, 
Unspotted as the new-born lily’s bloom, 

‘ Or that fair soul that vanished from the tomb 
When our first Easter morn did sweetly shine 
Down on the rugged hills of Palestine. 


[69] 


At the Gateway of Song 


COLUMBUS IN FETTERS 

APTAIN, I pray, take not my fetters off. 



Here let them clank till that most high 


command 


Which doomed me to disgrace with blush of 
shame 

Shall break this riveted steel’s wrist-chafing ring. 
For when this ship of thine shall safe in port 
Disgorge what here’s intrusted to thy charge, 
And throngs in strange bewonderment shall 
view 

This head, snowed over by tempestuous years, 
These pain-scourged limbs that ply their falter¬ 
ing pace, 

Like outlawed thieves, companioned with vile 
chains, 

Shame will bepaint each cheek, and pity’s tear 
With ocean deepness will beflood all eyes. 

And on the surge of this compassionate wave 
The king uplifted shall most clearly see 
How rude with cold ingratitude is the word 
That sent me shackled to the Spanish shores; 


[7o] 


At the Gateway of Song 


And chide that ear of his which credence gave, 
Ere truth was sifted, to the blatant tongues 
Of libelous traducers. Who can rule 
Where pride, lust, riot, idleness abound, 

Yet make no enemies? My power withstood, 
When I bare governance in this fertile soil, 

The birth-proud cavalier and haughty priest. 
Whom in their pride’s despite I forced to set 
Their idle fingers to some fruitful task, 

Lest grim starvation with flesh-withering blight 
Make waste our settlement. Could stripes be 
banned 

When oft into my westering vessel’s hulk 
Some Spanish prison puked a blasphemous mob 
To fill the number of my shipmen up? 

But humbled pride, subjected to constraint, 

And lust that’s baffled of night-stolen sweets, 
And ruffian villainy by strict office curbed 
Submissive tameness pay not to restraint. 

But build ambitious strongholds of revenge, 

By hate-begotten, shrewd-lipped falsehood 
propped. 

Malicious slander thus set forth my rule 
As marred by deeds of reckless cruelty, 

Though ’twas the spur of stern necessity 
Which forced at times my spirit to look grim, 


[7i] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Forsake its native lamb-like, genial bent, 

Loud growl in savage mask the tiger’s role; 
Which yet so soon as bettering moments smiled 
Its natural drift to lenient lordship took. 

Thus chain-encumbered to thy freighted ship, 
Which, late disanchored from yon scented isle, 
Now Spainward rides the rough, wide-weltering 
surge, 

Captain, I came, dismantled of my power. 

That life-long grant of governance in such lands 
As my adventurous sails should light upon — 
By royal promise, I misthought, made sure. 

Oh infelicity of that artless trust 
Where hope is builded on the word of kings! 
What fatal torment at no distant date 
Will be the death of that sweet confidence. 
Leaving the mind a desert lurking-place 
For visitation of extinguished hopes; 

Sad as the one lone leaf midwinter grips. 

Or drooping violets where bleak marbles tell 
How here lies sleeping a betrothed maid 
But late by the cold touch of death distilled 
Into a memory! How sweet it were, 

What rich amends for the dark ills of life, 

Were all our efforts for another’s boon 
But a cathedral’s portal which conducts 


[ 72 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


The o’erwearied foot into the soothing aisle 
Of grateful bosoms! Captain, 'tis not so! 

My deeds have earned this prize was promised 
me. 

Labored I have in the hot dust of day. 

Do not the Spanish garners widely bulge 
With fruitage of that toil? What fertile strands 
My keels have added to the imperial soil 
Which steads the rights of Spanish sovereigns 
Since first I landed on yon western isle, 
Wrapped in my scarlet cloak, with thankful lips, 
Our green-crossed banner fluttering in the breeze 
Of an October dawn! Nor can I doubt 
Illimitable gold, hid in these shores, 

Will heap proud measure in the delver's hand. 
This isle here seen is the rich Ophir's self, 
Whence the great Solomon, as parchment tells, 
Brought to the sacred mount the shining ore 
That decked his temple. Dive into these waves, 
And for thy guerdon wear rich strings of pearl, 
Which in green-curtained factories of the deep 
A million craftsmen bleach with cunning hand. 
The sportive wind that blows from yonder 
grove 

Sings of the spiced wealth that in it bides. 

[73] 


At the Gateway of Song 


And those rich-feathered fowls — fancy might 
urge 

Saints were they once that glowed in colors 
bright 

From altar-panels or the church's wall. 

Or ’neath a traceried arch from pictured glass, 

By mystic spell transmuted into birds, 

Installed as denizens of this fairy isle; 

As Philomela once in Attic days 
Translated was into a nightingale. 

Nor was grim danger absent from the task 
That blessed the Spaniard with such bounteous 
store. 

Who could foretell, when Palos mourned our 
leave, 

What hap awaited those bold mariners? 

What fell disaster peered with vulture greed 
To note the moment of their fatal loss? 

I deem not, Captain, with the vulgar mass. 
Whose minds so richly teem with monstrous 
shapes, 

Wherewith their fears do paint the untraveled 
deep, 

As childhood doth the mysteries of the night. 
Long ere that first exploit had reason chased 
Such idle trumpery from my sober brain. 

[74] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Yet I knew not how soon my vessels' planks 
Would float in fragments never to be seen, 
When in all dearth of help some watery bulk, 
Ambitioned vastlier than an Alpine ridge, 
Uptossed the spotlessness of its frothy snow 
Into the o’erwelkined gray. But Providence — 
Praised ever be the mercy shown! — mixed not 
My mortal substance with the briny surge, 

To sate the gluttony of the ravenous shark 
Or wane to nothingness in a liquid tomb; 

But did, confederate with my dearest aims. 

Safe blow my canvas to gold-entrailed strands. 
Gold is my quest, Captain, I do avouch — 

Too oft, no doubt, to devil’s-vantage yoked 
When lawless rivals doggedly contend 
For rank, estate, or place. But such a quest 
Hath oft been fathered by well-purposed minds 
Where thoughts were schooled to prize the 
sacred glow 

Of love or piety. Thus have I vowed, 

For love of that fair town my boyhood knew, 
To balm, with ducats of my future purse, 

The suffering poverty of my native streets. 

Yet note, good Captain, this my second vow. 
But not performable till propitious years 
Make rich my coffers with such mass of gold 


[ 75 ] 


At the Gateway of Song 


As serves to set on foot some large emprise 
Which few but royalty might dare to dream of: 
That city, thou dost know, whose walls em¬ 
brace 

The sacred sepulcher, to our reproach 
Pines in subjection to the will of those 
Who oft defied us with their saber’s blade, 

Nor venerate the sanctities of our faith. 

To snatch deliverance for that city’s gate, 

Safe lock its key into the church’s clasp — 

My hope on such bold enterprise doth fix. 

The gold I bag thereto I dedicate. 

Your look hath pity, Sir, as it did say, 

“The rainbowed bubbles of a dreamer’s brain 
Prone to be duped!” so thickly curtained stand 
The means whereby such enterprise doth win. 
But faith sees strength in that which the bleared 
eye 

Doth brand as futile; mountains are movable. 
This arm, though chained to sight, is free to 
faith. 

My hope, which sucks the milk of faith, can 
sicken not; 

But leaps, and laughs, and with assurance sings: 
[76] 


At the Gateway of Song 


Sight weeps the winter brooklet yonder 
In icy stillness cold and dead; 

Faith hears, hope-lured, the ripples wander 
With flute-note strain along their bed. 

Sight notes with scorn the paltry smallness 
Which yon flat maple seed doth show; 

Faith greets the wind-rocked emerald tallness 
Which from this winged mite will grow. 

Sight sneers with its world-wise derision; 

* ‘Success is sometimes bought with sin.” 

But faith, which holds the broader vision, 
Knows naught but right can really win. 

Sight faultily notes the world in making. 

To partial glimpse is strictly bound; 

But faith, from hope its prospect taking, 
O'erlooks the vast, completed round. 

Your duty summons. Friend? This visit's 
kindness 

Sings ever sweetly in my bosom's cage. 


[77] 



* * 







* 





















Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724) 779-2111 




















































•N 




















































































































































































/ 






































































































' 




















' 






























LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


0 015 973 964 8 






i, AV * 




fe 4 % / 






'■■■■* ■, :-;-r-f; 

■;V ' 

•-..;'-'V.s v: ' :V ••:' *• ’• 





Ni§^ •••^S 

Hfe:-;.- h v# 

., :!< -V'*^ ' 




■ 




‘V. 









. • f-4 ’•y: 

y*KpWjS 



■*§.$*;* 













,Cv .-i'S'VM 






ling# 


!*<&■ 

lift- 

p§^ 

^'>VY«a#L' 

,.. ■, *\i>. *i. *» 








> 

“‘v^r- 

,'’ ',v , ‘i 4' AY' 

v.v.yur*: 










^v,V. '■''' 






r '^^V f ''U 


/fftjyij 


• ry.' / •■ 


V.'; %M :,, ->.' ■' - ■ * 




J A ^ 


■;v 



!i ■ y / ^ 






mi 

ypp|i 


-; ; .i c#' 1 


**P^ 


: ** fc ' • .Vf,.>sf •'■.•' ^v/j 



ft: %#&g: 



/**$ #! 










' '.. r ^. , -• /V 




.'•. ; v f.*< - 

♦*7 'y*W< 

ii 







*»& 




;’'*&»&. ,^-k 










• . •''■■V; r «t '‘ IJ -- 

- i - '‘ 4 - 




r'i ■ _ 



; '.foi&ii.' $$>£} > 




-v'• p. . 




-# < v l '’:>i■■:■■ 

: UmSm 







' ■ > ^. ^ ^ '%4$t 




^-;V^'; ■•-V' 

V -. .■ 1,3 . -• •'.'«>'■ V . 




fuyMilfr •iyrw , » 

























a«£»( v, J-i'sA- 

jiiraWW 








vV * ^ 


























